


Death comes as the End

by EvaBelmort



Category: Highlander: The Series, Stonehenge Apocalypse (2010)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:14:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaBelmort/pseuds/EvaBelmort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You certainly took your time," said a familiar voice from behind him. Jacob whirled around, or tried to; his legs gave out partway and he had to grab the stone again. Dr Trousdale was leaning against one of the standing stones, watching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> May contain spoilers for everything. Except the Highlander movies probably.

Jacob Glaser staggered to his feet, aching from the tips of his hair to his toenails, and braced himself against the altar stone as he tried to get his bearings. He was apparently not dead, which was surprising but positive, and his gunshot wounds had disappeared, which was weirder but still a plus. The persistent ringing in his head was a negative, but considering the circumstances he couldn't really complain.

"You certainly took your time," said a familiar voice from behind him. Jacob whirled around, or tried to; his legs gave out partway and he had to grab the stone again. Dr Trousdale was leaning against one of the standing stones, watching him. He'd ditched the bloody suit in favour of jeans and a knitted sweater, which somehow knocked a decade or two off his age, or maybe that was the wry smile as he continued, "Five more minutes and I was going to have to drag your corpse to the car, and I do so hate heavy lifting. Now, we need to go before the men with guns show up to ask awkward questions."

Jacob eyed him warily. The man had definitely gotten shot warning him about David, but he seemed fine now, whereas David was lying in an unmoving heap on the ground.

"What are you saying?" Jacob asked, hoping that if he kept him talking, he'd get some answers. Or an obvious sign that the man was a deranged cultist, just so he'd know for sure. "We just saved the world. They should be lining up to thank us."

"Yes, of course," Trousdale agreed, scooping up a battered duffel bag from the ground and walking towards Jacob. "But there's also the small matter of us not being as dead as we should be. You're the expert on government coverups, what do you think is going to happen?" He arched an eyebrow, and while Jacob was trying to decide whether a research grant or vivisection was more likely, Trousdale neatly hooked an arm around his and tugged him along, until they were trotting quite quickly through the fields.

Jacob scowled, trying to get his arm free and finding the other man's grip surprisingly strong.

"Look, Doctor, I appreciate that you decided to believe me, even if it was rather at the eleventh hour, but where are we going? And why did you recover when your crazy cultist assistant didn't? He was at ground zero, while you were still at the school. And you'd been shot repeatedly."

Trousdale gave him an amused look. "If you can still talk that much, we should go faster. I promise I will give you all the answers you want and some you probably don't once we're well clear of this place. And... I am sorry I didn't listen. I'm rather used to having all the answers myself, but this terraforming business must have been before even _my_ time."

"What?!" demanded Jacob, startled, but then Trousdale let go of his arm and went faster, settling into a rapid, ground-eating lope that left Jacob too busy trying to keep up for any more questions. Which, he recalled, was the point. 

Once they were off the plain and through the woods, Trousdale proceeded to follow a complicated series of turns down back roads until they got to a small house, where he went around to the garage, fished a set of keys out of the duffel and unlocked the back door. Jacob followed him in and looked around, finding an unremarkable white sedan and a small workbench neatly stocked with tools. Trousdale looked at him, shook his head and unceremoniously pushed Jacob onto the stool by the workbench. He slumped there, gasping for breath, and watched with interest as Trousdale unlocked the car, checked it inside and out, then tossed his duffel into the back seat.

“Is this your car?” Jacob asked curiously. “Why is it here?”

“I like to be prepared,” Trousdale told him, getting the driver’s seat. He backed the car into the driveway, parked, and proceeded to close and relock the garage door, dropping a key on the workbench and shooing a stumbling Jacob out the back door with him, engaging the lock and shutting it behind them.

"Prepared for what?" Jacob followed him to the car, finding his aching legs already moving more easily.

"For having to leave town in a hurry, of course," Trousdale replied, climbing back into the car. He leaned across to open the passenger side door, and asked calmly, "Are you coming?"

Jacob stepped closer, but hesitated, resting his hand on the door but not getting in. "Not until you tell me what's going on. I'm sorry, but I barely know you, and now you want me to climb in a car with you and go god-knows-where, just for a vague promise of 'answers'?"

Trousdale smiled at him. "Excuse me for making assumptions based on the way you flew halfway around the world for vague rumours of government conspiracy." Then he grabbed Jacob's hand, the one resting on the car, and pulled it towards him. 

"Hey! Ow!" Jacob protested, off-balance, pulling back sharply at a sudden stinging pain across his palm, and where the hell had Trousdale gotten the knife? He cradled his bleeding hand and stared at the crazy man in the car, abruptly remembering that the entire area had been evacuated and they were completely alone. "Okay," and if his voice was shaking a little, he'd had a very rough day, "This isn't convincing me to go anywhere with you."

Trousdale sighed and calmly dragged the knife across his own hand, blood welling up immediately in a thick line. Jacob took a step backwards, ready to run, even if it meant back to the military who might possibly want to cut him up and figure out how he worked, but the man disappeared the knife somewhere and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the blood away. Jacob froze, stunned, because the cut was already healing, closing as he watched, fading to a thin red line before disappearing entirely. Trousdale offered him a smirk and the handkerchief, and Jacob took it numbly, wiped his own hand to find unmarked skin under the blood.

"That's impossible," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he flexed his fingers.

"No, just highly unlikely," he was informed as he climbed into the car. "I may not know anything about aliens,” Jacob frowned, and Trousdale continued quickly, “ _or_ robots, but I can tell you why you’re still alive. And I will," he went on, driving out into the road and heading away from Salisbury. "But it’s a long story, and I just have this terrible allergy to being arrested by government officials. It makes me come over all queasy and then I have to leave town."

Jacob snorted at the dry tone, and sank back in his seat, feeling ever-so-slightly overwhelmed. He'd always known that once he finally found proof of his theories, he might have to go on the run from the government, but this wasn't quite how he'd pictured it. Certainly Trousdale was a surprise. But the man seemed to have answers, and Jacob had made a commitment to following the truth, no matter where it took him, and he was sticking to it.


	2. Mi casa es su casa

“Okay, this is crazy,” Jacob said at last. He threw himself out of the armchair and stalked back and forth across the room, dodging the piles of books and John’s feet. “And that means a lot coming from me. I have a regular caller who is convinced his neighbour's cats are spying on him for a secret organization. He doesn't know which _one_ , of course, but that’s because it’s _secret_. So, when I say that this is crazy, I am saying it as someone with a great deal of experience in the field of completely loony theories. Oh, I can see why you wouldn't tell me anything until we got here, because I would have seriously considered _throwing myself from a moving vehicle_ to get away from you, that’s how crazy this is. And I am now _seriously offended_ that you thought I was a crackpot for the terraforming theory, which was completely true, when you believe you’re, oh sorry, _we’re_ , immortal.”

“To be fair, I've never been to the moon.” John offered, taking a sip from his beer. 

“What?” Jacob stopped pacing and stared at the nutcase sprawled lazily across the battered couch. 

“I've never been to the moon,” John repeated obligingly. “My point being, I've no idea if there are aliens _or_ robot heads up there, or, in fact, if any Earth spacecraft have ever landed there at all. It’s also entirely possible that that’s where all the fairies buggered off to when humans invented the backhoe, I honestly don’t know. Sure you don’t want a beer?”

“I- No, I don’t,” Jacob snapped, floundering a little, “and why do you even have that? I thought this was an ‘emergency bolthole’ for if you needed to lie low for a while. The furniture was covered with dustsheets, why is there beer?”

“You've clearly been visiting the wrong sort of emergency bolthole, then. Who wants to lie low without anything decent to drink? How do you feel about James?”

“James who?”

“Decide on the first name before you get into surnames, it’s easier.” At Jacob’s flat glare, John laughed and went on, “You need a new name, and it’s best to keep enough similarity to your original name that you’ll be able to answer to it naturally. So. James. Where are you from, James?”

“What if I don’t like James?” Jacob demanded, slumping back into the armchair. “And when did I say I was going along with this, anyway? I could still go back.”

“Not really.” John stretched out further, kicking one foot up onto the couch. “If you were going to do that, you shouldn't have gotten in the car with me. Stonehenge will be crawling with military personnel by now, and there’ll be a lot of awkward questions to answer. And, whether you believe me or not, I really can’t let you go and tell the government everything I've just told you.” He tilted his head sideways and looked Jacob in the eye, and Jacob swallowed hard, remembering that the man was carrying at least one knife and there was a dead-bolted door between him and any possible help. 

It might have been a better idea to back down, but Jacob had never been one to be cowed easily, and he didn't intend to start now. “Do I actually have any choice here?” he snapped. “Or are you just going to _cut my head off_ if I don’t do whatever you say?”

“You always have a choice.” John smiled at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Jacob felt the tension ease out of his shoulders almost involuntarily. “If you don’t like James, pick something else, something you don’t mind answering to for the next decade or so. I’ll help you out with the surname, preferably after you've decided on a background, and we need to work you up a life history before we organize supporting documents. And, once we have all the new paperwork, we leave the country, and I’ll introduce you to a few people I know, other Immortals. You can decide if you still think I’m crazy, and, more to the point, whether or not you want me to teach you. If not, we’ll find somebody else, go our separate ways, and no hard feelings.”

“Teach me what?” Jacob asked, frowning.

“Mm, how to use a sword is the main thing. You’re woefully out of shape, and you’ll be at something of a disadvantage facing people who have probably been fighting longer than you've been alive, so you need to work on that, and quickly. But as long as you’re with a teacher, it’s generally considered ‘bad form’” and that with a sarcastic eye roll, “for anybody to challenge _you_ rather than your teacher. It’s certainly expected that if they choose to do so regardless, your teacher will come after them and avenge your death.”

“Right. So, you’re actually volunteering to be my ‘teacher’. For how long?”

“That depends on how quickly you learn, my adorable Padawan.” And really, that shouldn't have made the concept more palatable, but it helped. John smirked at him, clearly noticing, and went on, “I’m told my methods are... somewhat eccentric, and I haven’t had a student in while, so if you do want somebody else, I won’t be offended.”

“Oh.” That sounded like a good excuse to fob off the crackpot on some other poor sap, didn't it? “How long is ‘a while’? How old are you, anyway?”

John looked away, finishing off his beer. “Two hundred years, give or take. I’m a little older than that.”

Jacob opened his mouth, and then closed it again, because yeah, immortal, right. “Okay. Is- Is your last student still around? Is that one of the people we’ll be meeting?”

John’s mouth twisted. “I’m afraid not. He died a few years ago.”

“So, wait, did he seriously have a swordfight with somebody, who then-“

“Decapitated him, yes.” And John might be delusional, but that looked a lot like genuine pain, and Jacob winced, feeling like a heel. All myths contained some truth, or they wouldn't have endured, and the same went for the stories people told, to others and to themselves.

“Okay. Uh, sorry.” 

John shrugged. “It’s a lot to take in, and you've had a very trying week. I’m not going to stab you for hurting my feelings or anything.” He rolled languidly to his feet, and padded in the direction of the kitchen. “You want something to eat? I don’t know about you, but I find dying always makes me hungry, and there should be some things in the freezer.”

Jacob closed his eyes and took a slow breath, considering his options. He opened his eyes again and followed. “Yes, actually. And I think I do want that beer.”


	3. By any other name

"So you really don't like James?" John asked him, over tinned soup and toast. "Are you sure? What about Jamie or Jimmy? Jim?"

"Only if my last name can be Kirk," Jacob snapped.

John's mouth twitched, but then he sighed. "It's probably going to be less confusing for you if you keep the same initials this time. Hence James."

"Oh." Jacob thought carefully. A name beginning with 'J' that he'd always notice... "Joseph," he said flatly, not looking at John.

The other man gave him a searching look, then shook his head. "Bad idea. You want to turn around when someone says your name, not flinch, or you're going to look constantly guilty."

Jacob glared at him. John arched an eyebrow. "If you must do penance I'll find you a hair shirt, but you're not going out wearing a name that'll get you entirely the wrong kind of attention from security personnel."

"Fine," Jacob muttered, feeling wrung out. He'd just wanted something to remember the man who'd been his best friend by, some small hold on the life that seemed to be rapidly disappearing.

"You aren't going to forget who you are just because you change your name," John said gently. "It's an adjustment, yes, like moving house or buying new shoes, but those are only things. A name is an external label for others to use. It can camouflage, but it doesn't define you."

"Camouflage?" The unhappiness was still there, but Jacob had a feeling that he wasn't ready to deal with it just yet, and was therefore willing to be distracted.

"Well, look at 'Trousdale'," John said lightly. "Don't you think it sounds like the name of a slightly-stuffy British academic?"

"Only slightly?" Jacob asked, smiling, and was rewarded with a flash of a grin.

"Well, he was getting older, you know how it is, a bit set in his ways and unwilling to listen to crazy ideas from young people. But the overall impression, especially to the military mind, was 'harmless boffin'. Certainly they never thought to search me for concealed weapons."

"Huh." Jacob looked thoughtfully at this unnerving man with his lazy sprawl and the glint of sardonic humour in his eyes. He'd practically inhaled his food, then disappeared into the bathroom while Jacob was still eating and come back out with his face scrubbed pink, his hair damp, and looking disturbingly young without whatever he'd been using to age his face. The overall effect was completely different to the stiffly condescending scientist he'd first met.

"Yeah, okay. But, uh, maybe try not to remind me that you're made of knives too often, okay? It's a little disturbing."

John snorted. "Actually, assuming that everybody is potentially armed will do you a world of good, if you can manage it. What about John?"

"What? But you-" Jacob faltered. "Oh. So, what's your name, then?"

Apparently-not-John grinned. "Andrew for now. Call me Drew. I think I'm going to be innocuous for a while, stay away from the military and government sectors."

Jacob frowned, and considered him. Right now, freshly washed, he looked like a slightly-scruffy grad student, and he'd shifted his accent, still English but less polished, which added to the impression. And, after all, he’d only just started thinking of the man as ‘John’ rather than ‘Trousdale’ so it wouldn’t be that hard to adjust.

"Okay. Drew. Is that your real name, then? Because if John is your real name then no, I don't want it."

The newly-named Drew snorted. "No, it isn't my 'real' name, though I have used it before. And why would it matter if it was? You could potentially live forever. Does it bother you that much to change your name? You can go back to Jacob the next time you change identities, in a decade or two. Unless you prefer your surname, but it does immediately make you easier to trace, and most people seem more comfortable keeping the first name. At the moment, we need as much distance as possible between us and our previous identities."

"John." It was an ordinary name which was probably the point. Jacob thought about it, seriously considered the idea of listening for 'John' and answering. "Alright, John I could do. I don't think I'm a James, though."

Drew smiled, a warm, friendly smile that crinkled his eyes and made him look utterly harmless. "John it is, then. Good common name. Forgettable. So, pick a surname: Gordon, Griffin, Green with or without an ‘e’ at the end, Graham, Gibson, or Grant.”

Jacob stared at him. “Where are you getting these?”

Drew smiled. “I Googled ‘common USA surnames’ and picked ones starting with ‘G’ out of the top two hundred. Do let me know if you have a preference, hm?”

There was an expectant pause. Jacob sighed, ran his hands through his hair, then said, "Fine. Griffin."

"Okay, why Griffin?" Drew asked, watching him with interest.

"Because griffins are awesome," Jacob snapped, "is that bad?"

Drew chuckled. "Not at all, good a reason as any. So, where are you from, John Griffin?"

"I-" Jacob hesitated, then said firmly, "Boston."

"Reasons?"

"I lived there for a while, so I know the city, and while I have moved around a lot, the accent should be fine."

"Good, now you're thinking.” Drew flashed him a pleased grin, and Jacob smiled back without thinking. “But, here's the hard part: what do you do? Not a scientist of any description, and it has to be something you can actually do, and don't mind doing for at least a few years."

"I-I don't know.” Jacob paused, then went on slowly, “I suppose 'running my own radio show' is out too... Maybe I dropped out of uni to travel? And I've only done a bunch of odd jobs, bartending and fruit-picking and whatever."

Drew nodded thoughtfully. "That's not bad, actually. You can say you spent a summer working on a radio show, a few months in a museum, and have explanations for any odd skills. Question again is, why? Did you drop out because you didn't like study? Itchy feet? Are you an artist in need of inspiration? You need to have an answer, and an understanding of John Griffin's motivations, because people will ask, and nothing draws attention like a mystery."

Jacob frowned. "So is this part of the teaching thing? Lesson 1: how to change your identity with minimal trauma? Because you sound like you've done this a lot."

"Well, whether you decide to stick with me or not, you'll need to know all this. You're lucky, actually, that you died when you did."

"Really." Jacob's voice was flat, cold. 

Drew snorted, clearly unconcerned. "From a purely practical standpoint, yes. You are never going to grow any older, but you're currently at that indeterminate age that could pass as anywhere from mid-twenties to early forties with 'good genes'. This is _lucky_ , because it means you can get at least two decades out of any given identity before you need to move on to avoid suspicion."

"Oh." Jacob frowned thoughtfully. "What about what you were doing, with the stage makeup or whatever to make yourself look older?"

Drew shrugged. "It's helpful, but only if you do it perfectly, otherwise it's far more suspicious than just pretending you age well. Men very rarely wear makeup these days, after all."

The dry tone surprised a laugh out of Jacob. "Yeah, I guess so. What's next, then?"

"Next," Drew informed him, standing up and fishing about in his bag, "I am going to do the dishes. You are going to consider your history, and practice signing your new name a lot."

"Okay. How much is 'a lot'?" Jacob asked, catching a notepad and pen as Drew pulled them out and tossed them over.

“Until you don’t need to think about it anymore. Don't worry, we have time." He collected the remains of their meal, and padded towards the kitchen.

"So, writing lines." Jacob sighed. "Anything else on the agenda for tonight?"

"Sleeping," Drew called over his shoulder, tone warmly amused. "There's only the one bed, so unless you want to share, you get the couch."

Jacob snorted, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he tried to think about what kind of signature John Griffin, itinerant arts student, would have. A messy, looping scrawl, he decided, nothing like the contained scribble that had been Jacob Glaser. Maybe he'd been studying psychology, he certainly knew enough crazy people that it might come in handy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still kicking. RL sucks like a black hole this year, and also Hannibal has eaten my brain. Um. The series, not the character, and hence, not literally. But I'm writing again, and once the paperwork gets sorted, they can go places and meet people and there may actually be some sort of plot.


	4. In that sleep of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are, by their nature, difficult to keep

Jacob wasn’t entirely sure when he’d dozed off; his last clear memory was of writing his new name over and over until the page began to blur while Drew alternately wrote in a notebook and typed away on a laptop. The soft sound of the keys was soothing, and Jacob had a fuzzy recollection of somebody tucking a blanket around him, a low murmur of reassurance soothing him back to sleep when he started to move.

He fell headlong into dreams, through a strange muddled impression of crashing monoliths and bullets onto a pyramid where he clung desperately to Joseph’s hands, trying to pull him up, or maybe Joseph was trying to pull him down, but everything was slippery with blood and he couldn’t hang on and Joseph dropped away into darkness, but then the stone he was on crumbled and he was falling too, and he woke clawing at the couch, desperately searching for something now out of reach.

Drew was perched on the coffee table looking at him. "How are you feeling?"

Jacob blinked at him muzzily, scrubbed at his face with his hands and muttered, "Not up to dealing with morning people. What time is it?"

"Not morning. I’m afraid you missed that by several hours.” Drew patted him on the knee and padded in the direction of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway to add, “Bathroom’s first on the left, in case you’ve forgotten."

As soon as he mentioned that, of course, Jacob realised he needed said bathroom quite badly, and he stumbled down the hall. By the time he’d used the facilities and splashed his face with water, Drew had apparently decided that, morning or not, it was time for breakfast. 

The smell of bacon and eggs made his stomach rumble viciously, and he followed his nose to the kitchen, where Drew gave him a smile and a plateful of food, then shooed him back to the couch to eat. Since the kitchen table was currently holding Drew’s laptop and several piles of paper, Jacob went.

After scoffing down the food with all the fervour of somebody who’d slept the clock around, Jacob found himself at rather a loose end, and when Drew came in to find him he was slowly dragging his fork across his plate, drawing barely-visible lines through a smear of bacon grease. Drew took the plate away and handed him the notebook he’d been busy with the night before. It was open to a page with ‘John Griffin’ at the top, followed by a brief account of his fictional childhood. 

Jacob started to read, but apparently said fictional childhood had been boringly normal, and he got distracted by wondering if Drew changed his handwriting along with his name. Then he wondered if he ever woke up in the morning and couldn’t remember who he was. He looked up to find that Drew was regarding him curiously, and it suddenly seemed much too difficult to think of a way to frame the question, so he just asked, “Uh, what’s this?”

“A rough outline for you to fill in.” Ignoring the armchair, Drew sat on the coffee table again where he could reach the notebook easily. He tapped on the page. “Here’s the details I gave you, which are now fact as far as your official history is concerned: John Griffin, native of Boston, no living family to speak of. Your late parents’ names and a new birthday, which you’ll need to remember, and I’ve noted in a few important dates, see, there’s when you left university. And here,” he leaned forward and flipped over a couple of pages, pointed out a date a few months ago, “is when you met me, Andrew Thompson. I am a postgraduate student at Cambridge working on my doctorate in medieval literature, which entails a fair bit of travel. You’re currently in England on a work visa and have been for seven months, and we can hash out more details later if we need to.” He flipped back, pointing out dates with countries next to them. “This is where you’ve been in between, as corroborated by your passport. I’ve given you two years moving around in Europe, so you look travelled but not suspiciously so, and a good six months of that in France.”

Jacob dragged a hand through his hair, trying to keep up. It made sense, but he was having trouble concentrating, and he honestly couldn’t think of any reason why he would have wanted to stay in Germany, or Belgium, or England for that matter. He frowned up at Drew. “Okay, why is France important?”

Drew smiled. “Because we’re going there to stay with friends, and it would look odd if you didn’t have any.”

“Friends. Right.” So, homicidal immortals lived in France, when they weren’t pretending to be mild-mannered British scientists. Well, why not? At the moment, France seemed as distant and unreal as everywhere else in the world that wasn’t this house. 

“So, do I need to do this now?” Jacob asked, looking at all the empty spaces marked with dates and feeling inexplicably tired again.

“Not at all.” Drew flipped the book closed and left it in Jacob’s loose grasp. “The dates I’ve written in are all the ones I needed. But it’ll take a week or so for our documents to be organised, passports and the like, and I thought you might like something to do, if you feel up to it.”

“Are you expecting me not to? I mean, I died.” Jacob paused for a moment, trying to consider that seriously. “Does that usually- I mean, are there side effects? I still feel exhausted and kind of... foggy, is that normal for rising from the dead?”

“Normal? Yes and no. I always feel hungry myself, but there shouldn’t be real any physical symptoms. The way you’re feeling, though...” His voice softened, sympathetic rather than pitying. “Jacob Glaser is dead. You’ve just lost everything, even things you didn’t know you could lose. To be perfectly honest, if you felt fine today I would have been far more concerned, since you’d either be a sociopath or repressing everything. And while the latter option may have its uses, in the long run it’ll do you more harm than good, and you now have the potential for a very long run indeed.”

“Oh,” Jacob said dully. No easy fix, then, and... he really was dead now. That meant no home, no more radio show, no website, no chance of setting the record straight about Stonehenge. He wouldn’t even be able to attend Joseph’s funeral. Somehow, it didn’t seem like much of a reward for saving the world.

Drew sighed, drawing his attention back. “Being immortal doesn’t make you inhuman. This is what’s happened catching up to you, and you grieving. That was why I made you decide all the important things last night, before it really sank in. So if you need to spend the next week curled up on the couch sobbing, that’s okay. If you’re more the shouting type, just try not to alarm the neighbours.”

“You’re being very understanding,” Jacob muttered.

Drew shrugged. “Whether you want me to teach you or not, at the moment I’m responsible for you. So for now, let me worry about the details, and if there’s anything you need, just say.”

Jacob frowned. A large part of him wanted very badly to accept that, but he was far too stubborn to let it go that easily. "What if I said I wanted to go back?" he asked mulishly.

Drew sighed. "I already told you, I can’t let you turn yourself in to the government, and that wouldn’t really get you what you want. Being immortal doesn’t make you a god either; I can’t turn back time or raise the dead, no matter how much I might want to, and neither can you. But I can tell you that you are not responsible for other people’s choices, no matter how poor."

Jacob swallowed hard, the brief burst of irritation fading. His eyes felt hot so he stared at the floor, avoiding Drew’s too-knowing gaze. He couldn’t escape his voice though, as he went on, "You did everything you could, Jacob. But in the end, you can’t save people if they don’t want to be saved." 

There was the soft rustle of clothing as Drew got up and padded back into the kitchen, and Jacob put the notebook back on the table, curled into his blanket, and thought very determinedly about nothing until he fell into a thick, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive, and apologies for the break, but I seem to have lost a whole year somehow. Family things, not good, thank you for your patience, etc.


	5. Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake (verb): Emerge or cause to emerge from sleep; cause to stir or come to life.  
> Wake (noun): A watch or vigil held beside the body of someone who has died, sometimes accompanied by ritual observances.

The next time Jacob woke up there was a note on the coffee table that said, 'Running errands. Stay put, don't answer the door, food in the kitchen if you want it'. Jacob stared at it blearily, then went back to sleep. The next time he woke, he was actually hungry, so he ambled into the kitchen to investigate. There were vegetables and raw meat and things in the fridge, but that all seemed too hard, so he had a marmalade sandwich. Full, but bizarrely tired again, he retreated back to the sofa to sleep.

This set the pattern for the next few days: Jacob stayed put, while Drew spent his time wandering in and out of the house, accumulating suitcases and clothing and paperwork from mysterious and undisclosed locations. His return was always heralded by the strange, dizzying hum that Jacob remembered from Stonehenge. When he asked, Drew assured him that this was perfectly normal for one of their kind, a sort of survival mechanism which allowed them to sense one another.

That should have opened the floodgates, but while Jacob knew there were several thousand questions he needed to ask the man, for once in his life he couldn’t seem to muster the energy. Besides, there was something so utterly matter-of-fact about him that made demanding to know if he was actually an alien seem impossible. 

For his part, Drew seemed content to put food in front of Jacob and occasionally tell him to shower. He also left a stack of books on the coffee table, an apparently random selection of things from trashy romance paperbacks to a lovely illustrated volume on Buddhist temples, and Jacob found himself grateful for the distraction and devoured them all with desperate interest. 

In between books he attempted to work on his fictional life story, but he honestly couldn’t imagine what he might have been doing in Belgium for two months. All his travelling had been in search of the truth, mostly to museums and ancient monuments and very little of it alone, which he was trying hard not to think about right now. So he read, and slept a lot, and the sun set and rose and set again and then Drew plunked a bottle of whiskey and two glasses onto the table in front of him and said, “Move up, would you?”

Jacob looked at the bottle, at Drew, back at the bottle, and then rather carefully he sat up and put his feet on the floor. Drew settled into the space easily, and proceeded to pour them each a generous glass.

“So, what are we doing now?” Jacob asked warily.

Drew held out a glass. “Drinking, obviously. If you have some personal objection to alcohol, now would be the time to say.”

Jacob snorted. “No, no objections. Just wondering what the occasion was.”

“To endings, and beginnings,” Drew offered, raising his drink.

“And hoping we survive them,” Jacob muttered, clinking glasses. The whiskey was decent stuff, and the burn was welcome, so he finished the lot.

Drew matched him easily, and refilled their glasses. “To Dr Kaycee Leeds, once a fine scientist with an excellent career ahead of her.”

Jacob flinched, eyes widening. “No! She was fine, I swear! Okay, not _fine_ , she'd been shot, but it was hardly life-threatening...”

Drew snorted. “Oh, she’s alive. We’re mourning her bright future in the scientific community.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jacob demanded, outraged. “They can hardly blame her for what happened at Stonehenge! I mean, if they’re looking for scapegoats, what’s wrong with me? Or you, for that matter, you were in charge, and we’re both supposedly dead and not in a position to argue about it.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’re down on paper as officially to blame,” Drew said, smiling wryly. “But I’ve known Kaycee a lot longer than you have, and believe me when I say she’s not going to toe the line and support whatever story they come up with for this. Especially since it won’t involve the words ‘aliens’, ‘terraforming’, or ‘Jacob Glaser was right’. So, here’s to the ruin of her academic career, and her new life as a fringe scientist.”

Jacob took a breath, and then clinked their glasses together. “To Dr Kaycee Leeds, wishing her the best of luck.” Downing the glass, he sighed. “She was nice, and she actually listened to me. I was really hoping that she’d get out of this unharmed, you know?”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Drew murmured, pouring again. “Still, she’s both stubborn and resourceful. Don’t underestimate her ability to land on her feet.”

Jacob grinned. “Hey, maybe she’ll take over my radio show! I’d hate to think my collection of cranks had been abandoned.”

Drew smirked back. “Or she’ll get recruited by the secret government agency that actually deals with aliens. Her credentials are excellent, and I’m sure they can just give her a new identity to avoid any problems.”

“Hey, _her_ credentials are excellent?” Jacob scowled. “If there were secret agencies going around collecting scientists to work on alien stuff, surely they would have picked me?”

Drew chuckled. “You, my friend, are both more opinionated and less reasonable than Kaycee. I doubt they’d believe you capable of discretion no matter how many confidentiality agreements you signed.”

“I’m perfectly reasonable," Jacob grumbled. "I just don’t see the point in hiding the truth from people. Why not give it to them and let them make their own decisions?”

Drew snorted. “You’re joking, right? People are _terrible_ at making decisions based on the truth. They’ll tell you they’re all very modern and reasonable and they believe in science and progress, but you start tossing words like ‘aliens’ and ‘immortality’ at them, they’re about one pitchfork away from a lynch mob, and then you have to leave town.”

Jacob stared at him for a moment, and then started to laugh. It hadn’t even been that funny, but he couldn’t seem to stop, until his eyes were watering and his sides hurt, and he took in a gasping breath and held it until what felt suspiciously like hysterics subsided. Drew handed him his glass, full again, and Jacob took a mouthful. 

“Tell me about him,” Drew said, easy and patient, and Jacob’s fingers tightened on the glass until he had to put it down.

“About who?” he asked, staring at the table fiercely. 

Drew tilted his head thoughtfully, and Jacob gritted his teeth, hoping he'd drop it, but he said calmly, “The one you’re mourning. Your friend, Joseph.”

“What’s to tell?” Jacob snapped at him. “He thought he had the right to play god, and I shot him, and now he’s dead.”

“Hubris,” Drew said, nodding. “Usually fatal. Not really what I meant, though. It’s not the lunatic who tried to kill us all that you’re grieving for, it’s the man he was _before_ he decided genocide was the answer to all his problems. Tell me about that man, the one you wanted to save." 

Jacob drummed his fingers on the table. "Why? What good does it do now?"

Drew shrugged. "Why does every culture in the world have some sort of funerary rite? Whatever you think about death, those ceremonies are mostly for the living, to grieve and to remember and to try to make some sense of it all. So, tell me the story of Joseph. Start at the beginning, if you like. How did you meet?"

Jacob ran a hand through his hair, swirled the whiskey in his glass, and considered. Drew crossed his legs and settled himself, as though he had all the time in the world and was willing to spend it waiting for Jacob to tell his boring, mundane little tale. Finally, Jacob opened his mouth. "The beginning. Okay, university. My second year. I was on my way to a physics lecture, not really paying attention, and he stopped me walking into traffic." Jacob swallowed, remembering the adrenaline rush, the panicked hands yanking him away so hard they'd both fallen. 

"There’s a terrible pun involving the word ‘spacey’ in there," Drew murmured, drawing his attention back. "So, he saved your life, or at the very least some of your limbs, and then what?"

"Well, I figured I owed him coffee or something, but he was in a hurry because he was trying to get to a lecture and wasn’t sure where the building was, and it turned out that it was the same one I was going to, so we walked together, and we got to talking. It was the first time I was late to a lecture, and I didn’t actually care. I don’t make friends easily, never have; Joseph always says-“ Jacob paused, and had to take another drink, “ _said_ , he always said that I was too direct and that makes people uncomfortable. It never bothered him, though, he said it was ‘refreshing’. He was good at that, making things sound better than they were.”

“Alright, so he was tactful and appreciated your intelligence, and also you were flattered that he chose to spend time with you even though he could easily have made other friends. Unlike yourself," and Drew's wry smile took the sting out of an unfortunate truth. "What was he like?"

"He- He was clever. That was the first thing that got my attention, that he could keep up with me, follow my train of thought, but he had his own perspective and it was... It was great to have somebody to argue with. I always thought we made each other better scientists. He was also just... good with people. You know, normal. He liked people, and people liked him, and he could talk to people, and he noticed when they were upset and he would try to help. He used to be... kind, I guess. I just- I don't know when he gave up on the human race, I didn’t even _notice_ , and I-" The words tangled up in his throat, choked him, and he stopped.

"You feel as though you failed him," Drew said gently, and Jacob looked up at him. There was nothing but sympathy in the other man's face, and Jacob could feel his eyes stinging, so he drained his glass and pretended it was from the whiskey. 

Drew said nothing, just waited, his silence expectant but not demanding. So Jacob breathed, and drank another glass, more slowly this time, and then he started to talk again. 

Their lives had been so mundane then, more meetings and shared lectures and arguments over coffee that led to becoming flatmates the next semester. Drew never looked bored, though, so Jacob told him all the little things that he'd nearly forgotten: carrying a stash of granola bars in his backpack because Joseph had a habit of skipping meals and then crashing in the library, and the little whistling snore that had been perfectly audible through the paper-thin walls of their crappy apartment, but that it had taken four months for Jacob to figure out that it meant Joseph had fallen asleep face-down in a book. Joseph tweaking his thesis proposal, muting Jacob’s blunt intensity until it was comprehensible for others; Jacob mulishly picking at flaws in Joseph’s theories until they were both sure that there were no holes left, the maths solid and perfect. 

And then it all fell apart. When their shared truths had been rejected by academia as mad fantasy, and they'd sat there looking at the cheap peeling wallpaper in despair, and they'd run out of money and had to admit that it was never going to work. They'd kept in touch to begin with, phone calls and emails, even as Jacob, growing more stubborn and intractable, had inherited his parents' house when his father passed away and filled the basement with radio equipment, retiring to his solitary existence with the fragile web of paranoid alien enthusiasts for company. Joseph, who hadn't spoken to his family in years, had charmed funding for expeditions out of an ever-more-dubious series of investors, until Jacob wasn’t sure what he was promising them, but he was beginning to suspect it wasn’t legal.

"He asked me to go with him, you know," Jacob muttered. "When he started doing that. I- we had an argument. I said something nasty about treasure-hunters, and he said that he didn't care as long as he got to do the digs the way he wanted, and that academia was full of close-minded fossils who would never admit that we were right until the proof was shoved in their faces.” He paused, remembering the shock of hearing Joseph’s smooth voice crack as he practically spat the words in Jacob’s face. “Um. Things were never quite the same after that. It was kind of a shock- he was always so easy-going, I hadn't realised that he was just as bitter as I was about the whole damn business. If I'd- I should have-"

"Dragged him to a therapist?” Drew offered softly. “Told him to get over it, even though you clearly hadn’t yourself? That would have been rather more hypocrisy than you’re capable of, I’m afraid.”

“No, I know, I just- He was always smiling. I think I took it for granted, that he’d be okay. Even though we were both in the same boat, I thought he could just move on and find something else to do with his life. He was good at everything, you know? He could still have done something worthwhile with his life, and instead he started a cult. I just- it was such a waste!” He put the glass down harder than he’d meant to, and the liquid sloshed wildly, but luckily it was almost empty again, so it didn’t spill. Jacob frowned at it, wondering if it was pessimistic to consider the glass half-empty if you spilled the contents. Or would that be optimistic, since it meant you’d only lost half a glass instead of a whole one?

“You alright there?” Drew asked, sounding amused, which probably meant he’d been frowning at the glass for longer than he realised.

“Maybe? I’m drunk enough to be wondering if I’m a pessimist.” Jacob snorted, rubbing his face. “Pretty sure I am, actually. I mean, I’m not dead when I should be and I’m too busy worrying about what I’ve lost to be happy about it.”

“Most optimists are hopelessly unrealistic,” Drew opined loftily. “In my experience, brutal pragmatism and a sense of humour will get you through much better.”

Jacob sighed wistfully. “Is it hopelessly unrealistic to believe that things can get better?”

“Only if you expect it to be easy.”

Jacob sighed again, his train of thought dragged inexorably back to Joseph. “I don’t know if sacrificing most of the planet’s population would be considered ‘easy’. Starting a cult is probably a lot of work, too.”

“Well, these days it’s probably a lot easier to find hundreds of like-minded individuals in strategic positions all over the world and talk to them without leaving the comfort of your home.”

“Great." Jacob snorted. "Technology, now enabling would-be gods to reach more suckers than ever before.”

“Look, there’s nothing inherently wrong with being, " Drew waved a hand vaguely, "clever, or eloquent, or charismatic. Joseph ran into trouble when he started to believe his own hype, to think that he really was special and ‘chosen’ and that he was more deserving of life than other people.”

“So you don’t think you deserve to live?" Jacob straightened up, intent. "I mean, doesn’t the whole ‘fight to the death’ thing kind of require you to choose your life over somebody else’s?”

Drew arched an eyebrow and then smiled, wry and a little self-deprecating. “Well, yes. But I’ve never assumed that winning a fight gave me the moral high ground, or that it proved anything except that I was luckier than the other poor bastard that day. That’s why I prefer to avoid fighting altogether, because getting into a fight _always_ offers the possibility of dying, which I’d prefer to avoid.”

“Allergic to that too, are you?”

“Oh, most definitely.” The smile faded, and he tapped a finger against his glass thoughtfully. “Listen, I’m nobody’s idea of a sage, but with the benefit of experience, I’m going to tell you something you’ll probably still have to learn yourself anyway.” He met Jacob’s eyes steadily. “People change. You can’t stop that. Everything changes, or it dies. That’s the way it works. You will, too.”

“Change?”

“Or die; your choice. But my point is, people change. They may change into people you don’t know, or don’t want to know, or outright hate. That doesn’t erase the past: the person you met, the years you were friends. Those existed, and you have every right to mourn the loss of your friend even if you don’t regret the death of the person he’d become.”

Jacob scrubbed a hand over his face, starting to think maybe he shouldn’t have drunk quite so much. “So... you’re saying it’s okay to miss Jacob-my-friend, even though I shot Jacob-the-crazy-genocidal-prophet. Can I also be really, really pissed off at my friend for turning into the crazy genocidal prophet? Because I kind of am.”

“Of course. I’ve never held with that ‘not speaking ill of the dead’ business; sometimes people are idiots, and there’s no point pretending otherwise just because they’ve died. I told you, repression is bad.” He paused for a moment, then continued more lightly, “Unless you’re in public. Then you need to focus on looking as sane and normal as you can.”

Jacob scowled, eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?”

Drew smirked at him. “Nothing bad. Just- it might be best to avoid growling about the extensive government cover-up involving Stonehenge. Especially around law enforcement, where it could get us hauled off for questioning. Think you can manage that?"

"No getting us arrested. Got it.” Jacob slumped back into the couch. “I'm not sure how good I'm going to be at being a fugitive."

Drew clicked his tongue. "Well, for starters, you're not a fugitive. Thinking like that will make you look shifty, and that gets attention too. You're John, a perfectly ordinary and harmless young man, travelling with a friend. It's been a stressful couple of days, and if anybody asks, you have some other friends in Maine who you haven't heard from since the earthquake there, and you're worried."

"More friends, huh?” Jacob smiled ruefully at the ceiling. “My social circle has expanded pretty dramatically since I met you."

"Yeah, you're a lucky guy, aren't you?"

Jacob snickered, then paused thoughtfully. “Wait, how did we meet? Since it obviously can’t involve me getting arrested for trespassing on a government cover-up.”

“Well, of course not. We met in a pub.”

“A pub. Naturally,” Jacob muttered. “There was beer involved, right?”

“Naturally,” Drew agreed, grinning. “Besides, I’m a student, you’re an itinerant jack-of-all-trades, why wouldn’t we meet in a pub? You don’t strike me as the hipster-wine-bar type.”

“Okay, fine, a pub.” Jacob nodded. “Why were we both in the same pub?”

“Ah,” Drew murmured, shaking a finger at him, “now _that_ is irrelevant. It was ages ago and everybody was drunk, who remembers why it happened? Somebody had a birthday, or got a job, or lost a job, or it was a day ending in ‘y’ and we were thirsty, nobody cares. Too much extraneous detail kills a good story, and makes you seem suspicious.”

“What? Why suspicious?”

“Oh, come on, only guilty people bother to remember exactly what they were doing on August twenty-fifth at eight in the evening, and it’s only to prove that they weren’t across town setting fire to their ex-lover’s house. So, there we are, both in the same pub, both drunk, and I spill my beer all over your jacket.”

“And then we started a bar fight?” Jacob was starting to feel tired again, but Drew was a good storyteller, animated and clearly enjoying himself.

“Not in the least,” he retorted, smiling. “Being completely shitfaced, you thought it was hilarious, and so did I, and we had a good laugh, and I promised to pay for the dry-cleaning because it was your favourite jacket, and we swapped numbers. Then, by some peculiar drunken logic we decided it would be easier if I just took the jacket, and got it cleaned, and then gave it back to you, so you handed me your jacket, and I toddled off home. Only trouble is, your phone was in the pocket, which I discovered the next afternoon when it woke me up by ringing most obnoxiously. It was you, of course, and we ended up agreeing to meet for a late lunch, and then we took your jacket off to the cleaners and I paid for it, and by this point we’d decided we were friends.”

“So then when your flatmate went back to New Zealand and your lease ran out, I offered you the use of my couch, since the music history major who was living with me had run off to Prague to look for Beethoven’s ghost...” 

Jacob lost track after that, and he must have closed his eyes, because when he opened them it was a pleasantly sunny morning. As sunny as it ever got in England, anyway, and he winced reflexively before realising that his head felt fine. Which, considering the amount he’d drunk the previous night, was pretty weird.

Drew, who had apparently been watching him with some amusement from the doorway, said, “Benefit of being a scientific impossibility: no hangovers. You’ll also find that you haven’t got a sore back from sleeping on the couch all week.” Then he tossed a newspaper on the table and said, “We’ll be getting on the train tomorrow, so you should probably catch up on what’s been happening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anybody still reading this for the delay. That's the part that was giving me trouble over with, so it's all downhill from here...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably going to write more of this at a later date, maybe post-apocalyptic road-trip fic, or the time when Jacob finds out his annoying new mentor is older than the Great Pyramid...


End file.
